Scrappin'
by Sk8er Chica
Summary: When The Saints disagree, heaven help us all.
1. 1983: Blankets

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing!**

**A/N: I've planned this to be a series of one-shots, some set before the movies and some during them. Rated for later language. My first _Boondock Saints _fic. Please be kind.

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**1983

Annabelle MacManus's dreams of her boys being able to know their father had not come true; Noah had been sent to prison for murder, a sentence of at least 25 years. She and the twins, Connor and Murphy, still lived in the same small house that she and Noah had lived in since their marriage. Although the local church was kind enough to help with the boys' upkeep and Annabelle herself worked as a school secretary, she didn't have enough money to buy bunk beds or separate beds for the twins. Connor and Murphy shared, not only their room, but the bed as well. The sleeping arrangement had been causing problems as of late. Connor and Murphy favored different sides of the bed, but both liked to sleep sprawled across the mattress. They were also growing rapidly. Every couple of weeks, the already narrow bed seemed to shrink a little more.

On this particular night, Murphy, the darker-haired twin who always slept on the right-hand side, was squashed almost completely against the wall. His brother Connor, whose hair was a sandy color and who slept on the left side, began to toss and turn; his movements pulled the comforter away from Murphy.

"Conn, stop it," Murphy mumbled, his thick Irish accent slurring his words.

He tugged the blanket away from Connor, toward his own side of the bed, and closed his eyes. Murphy was nearly asleep when the blanket was yanked completely off him. He dragged it back, less gently this time.

"Conn!" Murphy's voice was louder and firmer. "Quit hoggin' the damn blanket!"

"I'm cold, Murph," Connor mumbled sleepily, his accent as thick as his twin's.

"Then go get anoder blanket," said Murphy, rolling over and pinning the quilt beneath his side so Connor couldn't jerk it loose again.

"_You _get anoder," Connor retorted.

Murphy shook his head. "'M too tired t' get up." He couldn't resist adding, "I had a really big supper t'night."

He knew their mother had seen Connor sitting on the discipline bench outside the school headmaster's office earlier in the day and discovered why he was there. Connor, it seemed, had taken to swearing in class and smoking in the boys' bathroom. Though Annabelle MacManus swore like a sailor and was a chain-smoker herself, she refused to tolerate the boys misbehaving at school. She had punished Connor by sending him to bed without dinner. It had been satisfying for Murphy to see his brother caught, because Murphy had the reputation of being the "bad" twin, even though he and Connor almost always got into mischief together. And at least half the time, Connor had planned whatever it was that got them into trouble.

"Ma made lamb stew; 'twas nice an' thick. 'N she baked up some fresh soda bread," Murphy went on. "An' fer dessert, there was a big plate o' gingersnaps." He knew that last bit would definitely get a rise out of Connor; gingersnaps were his favorite dessert.

"Why don'cha jus' shut the hell up, Murph?" snapped Connor. He had been able to smell the meal from their bedroom.

"Is tha' any way t' speak t' yer older broder?" asked Murphy lightly.

Connor didn't need to be able to see his brother's face to know he was smirking; the tone was evidence enough.

"Don' even start with that again. Fer all the two of us know, _I'm _the oldest."

Murphy was unable to think of a comeback for that, so he just ignored his twin. Connor shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable. He was halfway asleep when he felt a sharp slap on the back of his head. Connor couldn't stop himself from yelping in pain and surprise.

"What the hell was that for?" he demanded.

"Ye were snorin', Conn," Murphy replied.

"I don' snore, Murph."

"Well, ye were. An' ye bet'er not do it again. I'm tryin' to sleep."

Murphy rolled onto his other side, facing the wall and further entangling himself in the blanket. Connor, completely uncovered now, felt blindly behind him for the quilt. Suddenly, the same rumbling noise Murphy had heard a few minutes earlier broke the silence in the bedroom.

"I toldja t' shut it, Conn," Murphy said in an angry whisper.

"I ain't snorin', all right, Murph?" Connor's voice was much louder. "Now gimme some o' the blanket. I'm gonna freeze ta death."

"Ye _were_ snorin'," Murphy argued, elbowing his brother in the back. "Noise's comin' from yer side o' the bed."

Connor retaliated by kicking the back of Murphy's knee. He couldn't help that his stomach was growling so loudly. Murphy lost his temper, got on top of Connor, and held him in a wrestling lock. Connor struggled to get loose; a wildly flailing arm connected with the lamp on the bedside table. The lamp fell to the floor with a crash. Connor managed to get free, but fell backwards off the bed with a loud thump. Murphy joined him on the floor and they resumed wrestling.

Suddenly, the bedroom door flew open. Annabelle MacManus stood in the doorway wearing a floral-printed bathrobe and a scowl, her curly red hair practically standing on end. She swiftly crossed the room and pulled the twins apart; both were out of breath, Murphy sporting a bloody nose.

"Boys," she said in a low, dangerous voice.

"Murph started it!" Connor shouted.

"Like hell I did, Conn," said Murphy, using his T-shirt to wipe his nose.

"Boys," said Annabelle in the same tone.

"Ma, Murph wouldn't share the blankets."

"Boys! I don' care who star'ed the damn fight. We've all got t' be up in the mornin' and I can' get me beauty sleep when you two are carryin' on like this." said Annabelle. "Any more ruckus tonight an' I'll come back in here an' I'll knock both yer heads t'gether. No fightin'! Promise me, boys."

"Yes, Mother," the twins grudgingly mumbled in unison.

"Well, there's my boys." she said with an expression that, for her, passed as a smile. She shuffled out of the room and added, "Yer both usin' yer pocket money t' pay fer that lamp."

**THE END**


	2. 1988: Treasa

**Minor A/N: Treasa ("TRA-sa") is a Gaelic name that means "strength" and can also be the Irish form of Theresa.

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**1988

Murphy tapped his pencil against the table in the school's biology lab, glancing up at the clock on the wall. Nearly 3:00. Treasa, the senior girl who volunteered as a teacher's aide for the class, looked up from some homework she was doing and gave him a small smile. Murphy returned the grin and swallowed hard; the classroom suddenly felt stifling.

He couldn't believe that he was actually considering going to a school dance, let alone asking the girl sitting across the room from him to be his date. Murphy had been nursing a secret crush on Treasa for several months. There were certainly prettier girls in the school, but to Murphy, Treasa was entrancing: thick blondish-brown hair to her shoulders, soft gray eyes, a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks, and (quite frankly) one of the most perfect asses Murphy had ever seen. Treasa stood up from the table at the front of the room and said something in an undertone to Mrs. O'Leary, who'd probably been teaching since time began; the teacher nodded to the aide. Treasa picked up her books and exited the room, giving Murphy an excellent view of how her sweater hugged her curves and the way that denim miniskirt complemented her ass.

The bell rang at that moment, jerking Murphy out of a fantasy about making out with her in a dark corner of the gym. He knew Treasa's locker was down the hall from the biology lab, so he hurriedly collected his things; it was now or never. He stepped out of the classroom and ran a hand over his head, trying to make the back of his hair lie flat. Murphy looked around, but didn't see Treasa anywhere. Dejectedly, he thought that she had probably put everything in her locker already and gone home.

Murphy was about to start walking home himself when a sound from the opposite end of the corridor got his attention. Laughter. Definitely a girl's...clear and almost musical. Murphy's heart pounded, realizing that laugh could only belong to Treasa. He headed down the hallway in the direction of the laughter, fighting the tide of students leaving the building. Murphy turned a corner and saw something that made his blood boil.

Connor was standing by his locker with Treasa. Her cheeks were pink and Connor was offering the girl his most charming smile. The grin became roguish as Connor wrapped an arm around Treasa's shoulders and whispered something in her ear, something that made her giggle. Murphy shunted a small freshman out of his way and stood in front of his twin, trying to keep as much anger as he could off his face. Maybe this wasn't what it looked like...

"'Lo, Murph," Connor greeted, arm still draped over Treasa, who, Murphy noticed, looked very pleased about something.

"'Lo, Conn. All right, Treasa?"

"Aye," she answered, her gaze flicking up to Connor's face.

"O' course she is," said Connor. "The best-lookin' bloke in school's gonna take her t' the spring dance."

"An' who's the best-lookin' bloke in school?" asked Murphy. Maybe Connor had asked her out for him...

Treasa's grin faded and she bit her lip.

"Well, it's me, innit?" said Connor with a chuckle.

"What the fuck, Conn?" Murphy exploded.

"Pretty little lass like her, 'snot right fer her t' go alone," his twin's tone was calm. "B'sides, I didn't know ye fancied Treasa."

"Yes, ye did!" Murphy was even more pissed now, his hands clenched into fists.

Treasa's gray eyes widened. She clutched her books tighter to her chest; as she took an automatic step backward, Connor's arm slipped off her shoulder.

"Murph's not gonna hurt ye, love," Connor said in a low voice.

Before anyone realized what was happening, Murphy drew back his right hand and punched Connor in the stomach. His twin doubled over, gasping for breath.

"Stop it," begged Treasa. She sounded on the verge of tears.

"I'm fine, love," Connor choked out. "Jus'--jus' stay outta the way, all right?"

Treasa turned on her heel and ran away up the corridor.

"Treasa, wait!" Murphy called after her.

Connor regained his breath and took advantage of Murphy being distracted by landing a sneaky left hook on his jaw. Murphy fell hard to the linoleum floor. By now, a small crowd had gathered to watch the fight. Murphy shakily got to his feet, grabbed Connor by his shirtfront, and slammed him against a locker. Connor grunted in pain as his lower back collided with the combination lock; he stomped hard on Murphy's foot to make him let go. Arms free now, he put his fists up to defend himself. He blocked Murphy's first wild swing but missed the second, which connected painfully with his eye. The fight raged on, punctuated by the twins cursing at each other in every language they knew. The crowd was beginning to cheer now.

Connor punched Murphy in the ribs and tried to get him in a wrestling hold. Suddenly, two strong pairs of hands were wrenching the battling brothers apart. The school's soccer coach and one of the English teachers had evidently heard the commotion and come to investigate. Each seized a MacManus by the scruff of his neck and marched them in the direction of the headmaster's office. The school nurse, who was about to lock up for the day, tutted at the boys, went into her office again, and came out with two ice packs. Murphy held his to his jaw, which was throbbing steadily now that the adrenaline had worn off; Connor iced the bruise he could feel forming on his back.

After several minutes of sitting on the headmaster's discipline bench in angry silence, the twins heard the door to the headmaster's office creak open.

"Everything's fine, m'dear," Headmaster Garrity said in a soothing tone. "Have a nice strong cuppa tea when ye get home, all right?"

Treasa, who had just exited the office with the headmaster, nodded tearfully. She dabbed at her eyes and nose with a crumpled Kleenex. Connor and Murphy both felt sick to their stomachs at the sight of her. Murphy had just wanted to get his frustrations out on his brother; Connor had just been trying to defend himself. They had never intended to traumatize an innocent girl in the process. Treasa gave a small gasp when she spotted the twins on the discipline bench, then narrowed her eyes at them.

"Listen, Treasa," Murphy started, "I can explain everythin'."

"Don' bother," she said coldly.

She walked out of the office without another word. The headmaster crossed the room to pour himself the last cup of coffee that remained in the pot.

Connor sighed. "Looks like we're even, Murph. I reckon she won' go out with either of us now."

"An' we're both goin' ta bed hungry when Ma finds out. Total fuckin' wash all around." Murphy shook his head disgustedly. "We're such fuckin' retards."

"Speak fer yerself." said Connor.

Headmaster Garrity made his way over to the discipline bench. "Murphy, I'm startin' with you," he said.

Murphy stood up and entered the headmaster's office. The door closed with a sharp snap. Connor sat alone outside, nursing his various injuries and ruing both his stupidity and the fact that he would never have a chance to make passionate love to the beautiful Treasa.

**THE END**


	3. 1990: Orange

**A/N: This chapter is more about a battle of wits than a brawl. Hope you enjoy it just the same.

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**1990

"You an' yer bright ideas," grumbled Murphy.

"Look at it this way," said Connor cheerfully. "We'll have more money when we get t' Boston. An' more money means we kin buy more beer."

Growing up relatively poor had taught Connor and Murphy to be careful about their spending, which was why they were currently stowing away on a cargo ship bound for America rather than paying a high price for tickets on a passenger vessel. The twins were beginning to regret their frugal decision. It hadn't been a comfortable journey so far, to say the least. The twins slept in the dark, cold underbelly of the ship, using their sea bags and coats as bedding. This did little to disguise how hard the steel floor was. Every noise at night sounded like footsteps, which, if possible, intensified their fear of being discovered by a crew member; the twins were getting an hour of sleep between them at best. Murphy's temper was much shorter than usual now and the slight shadows normally present beneath his eyes had become darker and more pronounced.

Connor and Murphy been eating extremely light since leaving Ireland, just whatever scraps one of them could manage to steal from the galley late at night. Neither of them liked having to steal; it was, after all, breaking a commandment. They would definitely have to go to confession when they arrived in Boston to seek absolution for their sins. At this point, both were just grateful to be alive and not have any tendency toward seasickness; the trip was hellish enough without puking all the time.

"I reckon we'll be everyt'in' Lady Liberty was lookin' fer, Murph," said Connor, toying with the chain to the Saint Christopher medal their mother had given him on the docks.

"How d'ye figure?" Murphy asked dully, running a thumb over his own Saint Christopher medal.

"Well, we're tired, right?"

Murphy yawned in confirmation.

"An' poor," Connor went on. "An' hungry."

"Don' fuckin' remind me," said Murphy, massaging his stomach. "An' if we're down here much longer, I reckon we'll be sick as well. Get pneumonia or somet'in'."

"Murph, yer gonna worry yerself sick." said Connor easily. "Jus' relax, all right? There's worse places we could be."

"Like where?"

Connor bit his lip. "Can' really think o' any at the moment." He let out a sigh. "I'm fuckin' starvin', Murph. 'S there anyt'in' left t' eat?"

Murphy got up and headed for a crawl space in the hold where they had stashed their meager stash of food. After a minute or so, he returned to his and Connor's makeshift sleeping quarters. He sat across from his brother, holding a single orange. Murphy reached into his jeans for his pocketknife and flicked it open.

"What're ya doin'?" Connor demanded.

"Splittin' it, ya retard," Murphy snapped.

"No, yer givin' me the whole t'ing." Connor argued.

He and Murphy had been dividing all the provisions in half since the start of the trip: Twinkies, fruit, and even those miniature boxes of cereal. Connor didn't usually mind sharing with his twin (except when it came to female attention, of course), but the lack of food and sleep was taking its toll on his ordinarily good nature.

"Yer so fuckin' selfish, Conn," Murphy said as loud as he dared in the echoing underbelly of the ship.

"I'm sick o' sharin', Murph. Now hand it over."

Murphy stared at the blade of his knife, mulling over what to do. Normally, he would've suggested they arm-wrestle or box to settle the matter, but neither of them were in any condition to fight...at least not physically. Struck by a sudden inspiration, Murphy put away his knife. He dug through his sea bag, eventually retrieving a pen and battered pad of paper from it. With his tongue between his teeth, Murphy drew a row of short horizontal lines, then a long vertical line ending with a line extending a few centimeters downward.

"Now what're ye doin'?" asked Connor.

"How 'bout this, Conn? We play hangman and if ye win, ye kin have the whole orange; if ye lose, I get it all." Murphy suggested

"S'pose tha's fair," his twin conceded. "How many letters?"

"8."

"All right then...let's see...O?" guessed Connor.

"'Fraid not," said Murphy, drawing a head on the end of the hangman's rope.

"N?"

Murphy shook his head and added a torso to the picture.

"S?"

"Nope." The stick man gained an arm.

Frustrated, Connor wracked his brain for other letters common in English words. "I? A? T?"

Murphy scribbled away on the paper, then declared, "Sorry, Conn, ye lost."

"Shit! What was the word?"

Murphy tossed Connor the paper and bent his head to conceal his smirk. When he looked up, Connor was shoving the notepad back at him, fury blazing in his blue eyes and etched into every feature on his face.

"This is in fuckin' Russian," Connor said through gritted teeth.

Murphy shrugged. "Ye never said it had ta be in English." he replied calmly, starting to peel the orange.

"Ye fuckin' tricked me, ye little bastard!" Connor's face turned red. He stood up and began to pace the floor, ranting incoherently in a mixture of Gaelic and English.

Murphy watched Connor's temper tantrum with an expression of mild interest. He was too busy reveling in the joy of having outwitted his twin to pay any attention to what Connor was saying. Murphy bit into the orange; juice trickled down his chin.

'_Victory really does taste sweet,' _he thought.

**THE END**


	4. 1999: Saint Patty's Day, Part 1

**A/N: I apologize for my horrible updating habits. I've been busy with homework and a club fundraiser so I've been creatively tapped out. But now I'm officially on Spring Break, so I should be able to get a couple chapters up this week. This chapter will be the first set during the original _Boondock Saints_. I couldn't think of anything to fill in the gap. Anywho, hope this turned out okay. Please read and review.

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**1999

It was one of Connor and Murphy's favorite days of the year: March 17th, Saint Patrick's Day. The boys enjoyed nothing more than being able to combine their faith, love of Ireland, pride in their Irish heritage, and penchant for drinking into 24 hours of merriment. Their first stop, as always, was the church down the block from their illegal loft to attend Saint Patrick's Day Mass. They seated themselves on a pew beside a woman with a 7-or-8-year-old daughter, spoke not a word to anyone, and dropped to their knees to pray. They occasionally rubbed their rosaries and muttered a few words in Latin. The little girl quickly stopped paying attention to the priest and stared in fascination at the two big men beside her.

"Stop that!" her mother hissed. "It's rude to stare."

Connor and Murphy didn't move or appear to even be breathing until the monsignor began to deliver his sermon. They stood up and started down the center aisle, taking no notice of the scandalized look on the face of a young priest who made to stand up before another priest whispered something in his ear. Connor and Murphy genuflected before the enormous statue of Jesus set up on the altar, kissed the statue's feet, crossed themselves again, and stood up to leave the church. Donning their sunglasses at the door, they paused to hear the last bit of the monsignor's sermon.

"Now we must all fear evil men," he began, "but there is another kind of evil that we must fear most...and that is...the indifference of good men."

Connor and Murphy pushed open the heavy front door of the church, walked into the bright sunlight, and trotted down the short set of steps in front of the church. With perfect synchronicity, each lit up a cigarette.

"I do believe the monsignor's finally got the point," said Connor.

"Aye," agreed Murphy.

The brothers walked down to a bridge, where they finished their cigarettes while gazing down at the river; both found this activity to be a soothing start to the day. Next, they started in the direction of the meatpacking plant where they both worked. Murphy playfully shoved Connor in the back.

"I'm walkin', don' fuckin' push me, Murph," groused Connor.

Though he was definitely more of a morning person than Murphy, Connor was never in a good mood before breakfast.

The twins stopped off at a bakery for a cup of coffee and doughnut apiece to enjoy on the rest of the trek to work. Once at the meatpacking plant, the brothers went to the locker room to put on their uniforms.

"This makes me feel like a doctor," said Murphy, adjusting the collar of his white lab coat.

Connor snickered. "Le's get ta work then, Doogie Howser."

Shortly before lunch, Connor stepped outside for a midmorning cigarette break. He'd barely started smoking when someone called out from the loading dock, "Hey, Connor!" and beckoned him inside. Connor sighed and ground out his cigarette with the toe of his boot. When he walked into the prep room, his fellow employees stared at him, some of them barely concealing smirks.

"What?" asked Connor.

Suddenly, there was a loud, sickening, wet slap. Connor was momentarily dazed by a blow Murphy had fetched him with a large piece of raw meat. Coming to his senses, Connor pushed Murphy down onto a metal counter, seized what looked like a pig's leg from a tray, and began hitting Murphy around the face with it. Murphy laughed and put up his arms to protect his head. Their coworkers were laughing too.

"Who's the master?" Connor shouted, triumphantly holding the pig's leg over his head.

Murphy, still on his back, took advantage of Connor's distraction. He put one leg behind his brother's back and hooked the other around Connor's waist, trying to throw him off-balance. Connor noticed and attempted to hit Murphy again with the pig's leg. They suddenly noticed their supervisor approaching them, along with what appeared to be a very large woman neither twin had ever seen before. Murphy quickly released Connor and stood up, both acting as though they hadn't been fighting on the clock and with company products, no less.

"This is Rosebaum Gurtle." said their supervisor, indicating the large woman. "Wait, no, that's not right. Rosenb--"

"Rosengurtle Baumgartner," said the large woman irritably.

Connor and Murphy noticed she had several odd piercings, including a nose ring. Underneath her lab coat was a flannel shirt that appeared to have had the sleeves roughly torn off.

"Pleasure ta meet ya, Rosie," said Connor, ever the charmer.

"I prefer to be called Rosengurtle by men," she said coldly.

That was when both twins saw the tattoo across the woman's throat, which read "Untouched By Man."

"Well, you're gonna be trainin' her today," their supervisor went on. "So do a good job."

"Aye, we will," Connor promised.

He and Murphy looked at each other, both sharing a thought: This was gonna be an interesting shift...


	5. 1999: Saint Patty's Day, Part 2

**A/N: Posting another chapter in honor of both the DVD release of _All Saints Day _and the one-night-only 10th anniversary showings of the original today. I've had my tickets for 3 weeks and I can't wait! The following is based on the deleted scene "Ma Calls From Ireland."

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**1999

Connor sat on the decrepit sofa, gingerly icing his crotch, which had become immensely swollen after winding up on the wrong end of Rosie's steel-toed work boot. Murphy was across the loft, getting ready to take a shower. The phone suddenly rang. Connor, who was closest, answered. Annabelle MacManus's voice came over the line.

"Connor, is that you?" Her words were badly slurred.

"Mother, is that you?"

"Is that worthless brother of yours there?" asked Annabelle. "I wan' ye both ta hear this."

"Christ, there's no fuckin' hot water," griped Murphy, turning off the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist.

"Shut it, it's Ma." hissed Connor.

As the conversation continued, Connor grew increasingly worried. It certainly wasn't the first time Ma had called them while she was drunk or the first time she'd called drunk and cried about Da leaving them; it was, however, the first time she'd said she had nothing to live for and sounded like she really meant it.

"I finally found your da's Army revolver, Connor," Annabelle informed him.

"Ma, what the hell are you doin' with Da's gun?" Connor asked in an edgy tone.

"Da's gun?" Murphy's concern was mounting too.

"I got it ta me head now," Annabelle went on, "and I wanna tell ya one last thing before I pull the trigger."

"Pull the trigger? Have ya lost it, woman?" Connor was in a full-blown panic now.

His mother didn't seem to hear him. "I...BLAME...YOU!" she screamed.

A split second later, a gunshot sounded in Connor's ear. He jumped off the sofa, spilling his bag of ice and dropping the phone on the floor. Connor dove after it. Murphy tripped over his own feet and fell forward, joining Connor in his mad scramble for the phone. Connor grabbed the receiver and held it to his ear. Both brothers began to scream "Ma!" into the mouthpiece at intervals, only to be met with silence; their hearts pounded in a combination of dread and terror. Suddenly, there was sound at the other end of the line: hoarse laughter. Their mother's laughter.

Murphy regained the use of his voice first and grabbed the phone. "That was a good one, Ma."

"Oh Jesus, no, Ma, no," Annabelle mocked the twins' voices. Her hoarse laughter dissolved into manic giggling.

To Connor, Murphy muttered, "She's quite proud of herself."

"Well, of course she is," Connor said weakly, his heart still thumping painfully fast.

Once Connor felt like he could breathe again, he pushed himself up on his elbows and put his head next to Murphy's so he could hear what Ma was saying.

"It's only 11:00 here, boys," said Annabelle, continuing the conversation as though she hadn't just scared her sons half to death. "I got lots more drinkin' t' do with your worthless relatives down at The Anvil."

Judging from the way she was slurring her words, more alcohol was the last thing their ma needed.

"Ye just called t' torture us, didja?" Murphy said darkly.

"Ma, how's Uncle Sibeal?" asked Connor.

"He's been havin' a drink here and there himself. Been up the waitress's skirt all night, poor girl." replied Annabelle.

"You tell him he's gotta respect women the way Connor does," said Murphy, lightly patting his brother's cheek.

Connor jerked away. "Don't even start, ye little bastard!"

"He got beat up by a girl, Ma," he said with relish.

"Ma, if that was a girl, I wan' ta see some papers," said Connor. "She had ta be just preoperative."

"What'd ya do t' her, Connor?" asked Annabelle.

"I jus' tried ta make friends an' she gave me a shot ta the nuts." Connor explained.

"What?" Annabelle was aghast. "The dirty bitch. I hope ye trounced her a good one."

"Don' worry about a t'ing, Ma, I respected the hell outta her for ya," said Murphy.

Connor rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, Macho Murph."

Annabelle went on a stilted rant about the hardships of having to carry two children at the same time, then breastfeed and take care of two babies. She made Connor and Murphy promise not to fight when they went out drinking for Saint Patrick's Day later that night.

"We promise," said Murphy.

"Shit," Annabelle said quietly. "Gotta go. I think I caused a ruckus with that shot. Half the damn neighborhood's comin' up the hill."

"All right, we love ya, Ma," said Murphy. "Before you go, give us the goods, eh?"

Annabelle had never told the twins which of them was older. Not knowing drove them both mad.

"Ma, it's been 27 years," added Connor. "Now jus' tell us. Who came out first?"

"All right," sighed Annabelle. "I suppose ye have the right ta know."

Connor and Murphy both propped themselves up further on their elbows. Murphy pulled the phone closer to his ear.

"I can't fuckin' hear," said Connor, swatting Murphy on top of the head.

The silence on the other end of the line dragged on; it felt like an eternity. Connor and Murphy lay on their stomachs amidst the scattered ice cubes, waiting eagerly to hear the information that would settle the debate that had been raging for years.

"The one with the bigger cock," Annabelle said finally.

She cackled insanely and hung up the phone. Connor and Murphy remained on the floor, jaws dropped in disbelief.

"That's yer fuckin' mother talkin' like that," said Connor.

"She's _yer _fuckin' mother too," Murphy reminded him.

Connor stood up and tossed the phone on the sofa. "Crazy woman."

Murphy rolled onto his back, surveying his brother from the floor and grinning evilly.

Connor frowned, knowing exactly what was making Murphy smile like that. "Don't even start. I've 'ad ice on mine, all right?"


	6. 1999: Rope

**A/N: This chapter is a Saint Patrick's Day gift to all my fans and readers. _Sláinte_

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**1999

Connor and Murphy hurried down a set of side stairs to one of the many service entrances of the opulent Copley Plaza Hotel, both shouldering black duffel bags filled with all the tools of their new trade. They slipped onto a service elevator; Connor pushed the button for the 7th floor. The brothers stood in silence facing each other, Murphy's head hung low and hands stuffed in the pockets of his pea coat. If he hadn't chosen to put his hands in his pockets, Connor was certain Murphy would be chewing his nails to the quick right now. Murphy had developed that habit as a kid and had never been able to completely shake it, though he mostly only bit his nails out of anxiety anymore.

"Ya nervous?" Connor asked.

Murphy nodded.

"Myself as well," Connor admitted.

The lighter-haired twin reached out a finger and pressed a red button on the elevator's panel, causing the elevator to stall between floors 6 and 7. He and Murphy swiftly dropped to their knees and unzipped their duffel bags. Both twins holstered a 9 mm Beretta to each hip, then put on black leather gloves and ski masks. They pushed the sleeves of their shirts down over their matching intricate Celtic cross tattoos. They checked themselves in the elevator mirror to make sure their neck tattoos were completely covered. Each twin retrieved a heavy Maglite flashlight and a coil of thick black rope from his respective bag. Murphy tucked his new Rambo knife down the front of his jeans. At last, they were ready.

"You and your fuckin' rope," Murphy muttered as Connor handed his own length of rope to his twin.

Murphy gave him a leg up and Connor climbed out of the elevator through the ceiling hatch. After a brief struggle, Murphy managed to hoist himself up. Once atop the stalled elevator car, he found Connor examining a wall vent intently.

"I toldja there'd be a shaft," he said.

Connor climbed into the air duct first, barely making it through the opening because of his broad shoulders. He flicked on his flaslight and waited for Murphy to follow. Murphy, having a slightly slimmer build than his brother, fit easily into the vent. They began to crawl through the hotel's ventilation system on their hands and knees, Murphy still carrying both coils of rope. As they made random turns, Murphy sincerely hoped Connor had at least some idea of where he was going. Connor suddenly paused, snapped his fingers at Murphy, and carefully turned himself around to head down a different path.

"Where the fuck ya goin'?" Murphy demanded, trailing his twin.

"Shhh!" Connor hissed. "I fuckin' hear somet'in' out there."

Murphy thought he did too, specifically a man's voice shouting in Russian. But he wasn't about to give Connor the satisfaction of agreeing with him. Connor was lying on his side a little ahead of him, holding himself up with one elbow so he could have a better angle for a face-to-face conversation.

"I'm sweatin' my ass off draggin' your rope around," Murphy complained. "Must weigh 30 pounds."

"We are doin' some serious shit here, so get a fuckin' hold of yourself," Connor said tersely.

Somewhere below them, the Russian's voice was growing steadily louder.

"Fuck you. I'm not the rope-totin' Charlie Bronson that's gettin' us fuckin' lost." said Murphy loudly.

"Will you fuckin' shut it?" said Connor in an irritated whisper.

He tapped Murphy sharply on the head with the Maglite.

"You mother--" Murphy began, seizing his brother by the lapels of his coat.

Since there was so little room in the air shaft, there was little the twins could do besides throw a few elbows, try to kick each other, slam each other into the sides of vent, and hurl whispered insults in every language they knew. Connor and Murphy became entangled in their own ropes in the process. The ventilation tunnel rattled as the fight raged on. Connor and Murphy knew they were making a hell of a racket, but the pissed-off Russian gangster downstairs was now screaming so loudly that they doubted he could hear a thing. A different noise brought their rough-housing to an abrupt end: creaking metal mixed with something else cracking. It slowly dawned on the brothers that the vent had not been designed to withstand almost 400 pounds of battling MacManuses.

"Jesus," muttered Connor.

"Oh shit," said Murphy.

The metal beneath them suddenly gave way and they crashed right through the ceiling of one of the Copley Plaza's most expensive suites. The only thing that saved them from a painful landing on the floor was the rope that now suspended them upside down by their ankles. The twins drew their guns and fired on all the fat gangster's cohorts. Once all of them were down, Murphy unsheathed his Rambo knife, leaned as far up as he could, and sawed through the rope. He and Connor landed in a heap on the floor, still tied together by their ankles. Murphy freed them, then they finished off the Russian mob boss.

"Well," said Connor after they'd both caught their breath and taken off their ski masks. He changed his voice to a whiny mocking of Murphy's. "'Name one thing you're gonna need that stupid fuckin' rope for.'"

For once, Murphy did not retort angrily to his brother's teasing. Partly because he saw Connor was grinning and, frankly, he was grateful just to be alive after their plan went to hell in a handbasket.

"That was way easier than I thought," said Murphy. "On TV, you've always got that guy that jumps over the sofa."

"Then ya gotta shoot at him for 10 minutes too," added Connor. He glanced over toward the small in-room bar, where a black canvas bag sat on the counter. "Now what d'ye t'ink is in that little case there?" he asked.

He and Murphy started for the bar at the same time. Connor playfully grabbed Murphy by the jacket and tossed him to the floor. Connor unzipped the bag, which turned out to contain more money than the twins had ever seen in one place in their lives. They each seized a stack.

"Ow!" Connor yelped as Murphy hit him on the head with a brick of 100-dollar bills.

"Tha' was fer ye bashin' me in the fuckin' skull with the flashlight," said Murphy.

Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he could feel a definite lump forming where Connor had hit him. Connor ignored his twin's remark in favor of deeply sniffing his own stack of money.

"Give it a smell," he encouraged.

"I love our new job," Murphy declared.


	7. 1999: Betrayal

1999

After Rocco happened into the suite (and the twins had played what they felt was a highly amusing joke on him), the three went back to Rocco's apartment. Connor and Murphy had spelled out their new calling to their friend, then Rocco had called out for pizza. They sat in Rocco's kitchen for hours, eating, drinking beer, and enjoying themselves. The party had come to an abrupt end when Rocco had accidentally shot and killed his girlfriend's cat with one of the twin's Berretas (he wasn't sure whose).

The next morning, Rocco woke up with a stiff back from falling asleep in his beanbag chair. Through the living room doorway, he saw Connor pushing himself up off the floor, where he'd been using his coat for a pillow. Connor hadn't slept much because he'd been thinking about Rocco's showing up at the Copley Plaza to carry out a hit on the gangsters he and Murphy had ended up taking care of. There was a nagging feeling in his gut that Rocco had been set up, although he hadn't told Rocco this yet. But he had to tell him and quick. Rocco was supposed to meet a couple of Poppa Joe's thugs in a few hours.

Connor sighed. This wasn't gonna be an easy conversation to have. He glanced toward Murphy, who was still sound asleep on the sofa, and decided that he'd best break the news to Rocco outside. There was bound to be yelling, Murph had always been a light sleeper and wouldn't hesitate to lash out at whoever or whatever woke him up.

Connor went outside to the concrete alleyway that served as the apartment building's courtyard and found Rocco already there, lighting up a cigarette. Connor cast around for something to say to break the ice. "Donna's gonna be angry about her cat."

Rocco let out a breath, smoke pluming out of his nostrils. "She's on every drug known to man. She'd-a sold the thing for a dimebag." He chuckled. "I do kinda feel like an asshole, though."

"Yeah, Roc, ye sound real remorseful there." Now it was time to cut to the chase. "Listen, somet'in's been botherin' me about las' night. What if your boss knew how many fellas were supposed t' be there? 9 men, 6 bullets."

"You think they sold me out?" Rocco asked. He shook his head, grinning. "No way. No way."

"He probably knew ya'd end up nailin' the fat guy, maybe one or two more," Connor conceded. "But he had ta know ye weren't walkin' outta dere." Using his knowledge of movies and cop shows to draw his conclusion, he added, "If the shooter's dead at the scene, there's no in-depth investigation. It'll slide off his fuckin' back." He sighed again. "Roc, as much as I love ya, man, yer not exactly Don Corleone."

Rocco shook his head repeatedly. "No-no-no. That's bullshit. That's just--That ain't the way things are done. I mean, thanks for your concern and all, but that just ain't how it works."

Connor could see he was getting nowhere, though he thought he'd detected a hint of anxiety in Rocco's voice. "Listen, Roc, just do me a favor. Roll it around a bit on yer way, all right?"

"Nope," Rocco said stubbornly. "No rollin', nothin' needs to be rolled. Anyway, how's he know I don't get in there, see there's too many of 'em, just serve 'em their fuckin' food and beat it?"

"Because he fuckin' knows ya, Roc. A smooth hitter woulda gone in there, seen it was a fuckin' wash, and slipped out. But he knows this is yer only shot. That ye been waitin' 18 fuckin' years."

Just then, Murphy appeared in the alley, puffing on his own cigarette.

"Where ya goin', Roc?" When he got no answer, he turned to his twin. "Didja tell 'im?"

"O' course I fuckin' told 'im." Connor replied.

"Well, then what the fuck--" Murphy started.

"Hey," Rocco cut in. "You guys don't know all that shit for sure."

Murphy rolled his eyes and angrily threw his cigarette onto the pavement. "Yer such a fuckin' retard!"

Enraged, Rocco reached out and grabbed Murphy by the lapels. Murphy seized Rocco by his trenchcoat and shoved him into the wall.

"Use your fuckin' brain fer once!" Murphy spat. "Is it so unbelievable they don't care about ya?"

Rocco pushed Murphy away. "Oh sure! You two fuckin' micks know what's goin' on! Fuck you both!"

"Listen, Roc, this is not a fuckin' t'ing ye should gamble on, all right?" Connor's voice was raised now too.

"I don't believe this." said Rocco. He started to walk away. "I'm leavin', man. I'm outta here."

Murphy's temper flared again. "Fine! Fuck it!" He followed a couple of steps and landed a solid kick on the gate. "What kinda flowers ye want at yer funeral, ya dumb wop? This is the last time I'm gonna see ya!"

"I'll be back at 9:00. Bury the fuckin' cat!" Rocco called over his shoulder.

"Listen, ye get in there and ye start gettin' a bad vibe, ya get the fuck out quick!" Connor yelled after him, more concern in his tone than anger.


End file.
